Харлан Эллисон: Alien Sex: 19 Tales by the Masters of Science Fiction and Dark Fantasy

So what’s changed since Alien Sex was first published in 1990? Sexuality and gender have become more commonly dealt with in science fiction. Or if not literally “dealt” with, at least acknowledged. There are more characters with sexual identities other than heterosexual in stories and novels. Also, a year after the publication of Alien Sex , the James Tiptree, Jr. Award was established—an award celebrating “the exploration and expansion of gender roles in science fiction and fantasy.”

Despite the evolving maturity in our field of literature concerning human sexuality and gender, I believe that the stories presented herein have not dated and will continue to provide enjoyment (or discomfort, as there are at least a few SF/horror stories within) for many years to come.

Leigh Kennedy was born in Colorado but has lived in Hastings, England, for many years. Her first novel, The Journal of Nicholas the American , appears on the SF Masterworks list from the Gollancz publishing imprint. She has also published another novel and two short story collections, most recently Wind Angels (2011). Kennedy is currently at work on her next novel, with ideas for others brewing.

DOUGLAS WAS EMBARRASSED WHEN he saw Annie and Vernon mating.

He’d seen hours of sex between orangutans, but this time was different. He’d never seen Annie doing it. He stood in the shade of the pecan tree for a moment, shocked, iced tea glasses sweating in his hand, then he backed around the corner of the brick building. He was confused. The cicadas seemed louder than usual, the sun hotter, and the squeals of pleasure from the apes strange.

He walked back to the front porch and sat down. His mind still saw the two giant mounds of red-orange fur moving together like one being.

When the two orangs came back around, Douglas thought he saw smugness in Vernon’s face. Why not, he thought? I guess I would be smug, too.

Annie flopped down on the grassy front yard and crossed one leg over the other, her abdomen bulging high; she gazed upward into the heavy white sky.

Vernon bounded toward Douglas. He was young and red-chocolate colored. His face was still slim, without the older orangutan jowls yet.

“Be polite,” Douglas warned him.

“Drink tea, please?” Vernon signed rapidly, the fringe on his elbows waving. “Dry as bone.”

Douglas handed Vernon one of the glasses of tea, though he’d brought it out for Annie. The handsome nine-year-old downed it in a gulp. “Thank you,” he signed. He touched the edge of the porch and withdrew his long fingers. “Could fry egg,” he signed, and instead of sitting, swung out hand-over-hand on the ropes between the roof of the schoolhouse and the trees. It was a sparse and dry substitute for the orang’s native rain forest.

He’s too young and crude for Annie, Douglas thought.

“Annie,” Douglas called. “Your tea.”

Annie rolled onto one side and lay propped on an elbow, staring at him. She was lovely. Fifteen years old, her fur was glossy and coppery, her small yellow eyes in the fleshy face expressive and intelligent. She started to rise up toward him, but turned toward the road.

The mail jeep was coming down the highway.

In a blurred movement, she set off at a four-point gallop down the half-mile drive toward the mailbox. Vernon swung down from his tree and followed, making a small groan.

Reluctant to go out in the sun, Douglas put down the tea and followed the apes down the drive. By the time he got near them, Annie was sitting with mail sorted between her toes, holding an opened letter in her hands. She looked up with an expression on her face that he’d never seen—it could have been fear, but it wasn’t.

She handed the letter to Vernon, who pestered her for it. “Douglas,” she signed, “they want to buy my story.”

Therese lay in the bathwater, her knees sticking up high, her hair floating beside her face. Douglas sat on the edge of the tub; as he talked to her he was conscious that he spoke a double language—the one with his lips and the other with his hands.

“As soon as I called Ms. Young, the magazine editor, and told her who Annie was, she got really excited. She asked me why we didn’t send a letter explaining it with the story, so I told her that Annie didn’t want anyone to know first.”

“Did Annie decide that?” Therese sounded skeptical, as she always seemed to when Douglas talked about Annie.

“We talked about it and she wanted it that way.” Douglas felt that resistance from Therese. Why she never understood, he didn’t know, unless she did it to provoke him. She acted as though she thought an ape was still just an ape, no matter what he or she could do. “Anyway,” he said, “she talked about doing a whole publicity thing to the hilt—talk shows, autograph parties. You know. But Dr. Morris thinks it would be better to keep things quiet.”

“Why?” Therese sat up; her legs went underwater and she soaped her arms.

“Because she’d be too nervous. Annie, I mean. It might disrupt her education to become a celebrity. Too bad. Even Dr. Morris knows that it would be great for fund-raising. But I guess we’ll let the press in some.”

Therese began to shampoo her hair. “I brought home that essay that Sandy wrote yesterday. The one I told you about. If she were an orangutan instead of just a deaf kid, she could probably get it published in Fortune. ” Therese smiled.

Douglas stood. He didn’t like the way Therese headed for the old argument—no matter what one of Therese’s deaf students did, if Annie could do it one-one-hundredth as well, it was more spectacular. Douglas knew it was true, but why Therese was so bitter about it, he didn’t understand.

“That’s great,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Will you wash my back?” she asked.

He crouched and absently washed her. “I’ll never forget Annie’s face when she read that letter.”

“Thank you,” Therese said. She rinsed. “Do you have any plans for this evening?”

“I’ve got work to do,” he said, leaving the bathroom. “Would you like me to work in the bedroom so you can watch television?”

After a long pause, she said, “No, I’ll read.”

He hesitated in the doorway. “Why don’t you go to sleep early? You look tired.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

In the playroom at the school, Douglas watched Annie closely. It was still morning, though late. In the recliner across the room from him, she seemed a little sleepy. Staring out the window, blinking, she marked her place in Pinkwater’s Fat Men from Space with a long brown finger.

He had been thinking about Therese, who’d been silent and morose that morning. Annie was never morose, though often quiet. He wondered if Annie was quiet today because she sensed that Douglas was not happy. When he’d come to work, she’d given him an extra hug.

He wondered if Annie could have a crush on him, like many schoolgirls have on their teachers. Remembering her mating with Vernon days before, he idly wandered into a fantasy of touching her and gently, gently moving inside her.

The physical reaction to his fantasy embarrassed him. God, what am I thinking? He shook himself out of the reverie, averting his gaze for a few moments, until he’d gotten control of himself again.

“Douglas,” Annie signed. She walked erect, towering, to him and sat down on the floor at his feet. Her flesh folded onto her lap like dough.

“What?” he asked, wondering suddenly if orangutans were telepathic.

“Why you say my story children’s?”

He looked blankly at her.